


harmless crush

by Lua



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little bit of fingering, Canon Compliant, Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Unbeta'd, mentions of PTSD symptoms, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: It was an odd night. Peter’s nightmares usually didn’t lead to casual sex.I scream bloody murderWhy don't you call me something dirtier?Geronimo  – Phantom Planet [steter secret santa - 2016]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wibblywobblymess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblywobblymess/gifts).



> i'm not really used to writing porn and mostly i go to dark themes but i tried to write something along the lines of what you told me. i'm not sure i succeeded but i hope you enjoy your gift :D i hope you have a really happy christmas!

Peter woke up to the scent of ash and burning wood and a panic that still took way too long to subside.

He dreamt of a fire.

Peter checked his phone for the time, trying to will himself back to sleep. It wasn’t happening. He checked his phone again, this time for information on nearby fires; he wanted to convince himself there wasn’t one.  In the end, he just got up and stretched, still restless despite the knowledge. There wasn’t anything to be done and pacing around his living room wouldn’t help but it was better than stay in bed wide awake.

The night was silent. The memory of the smell and the sounds refused to leave. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t happening to him. He was safe, he was home, he wasn’t burning. Peter sighed. He knew all that and, yet, he couldn’t relax.

So he listened.

It was almost four in the morning of the Monday before Christmas. Beacon Hills was silent. The street outside his apartment was silent.

Not for the first time, Peter considered packing his things and moving away. No planning, no safety checks; just packing everything he could use or care about and drive away.  He considered getting in the car right then and there, only wearing his pajamas, and driving to some other place, some other state, some other country. Somewhere. Anywhere that didn’t spontaneously combust now and then.

Anywhere that didn’t have the lingering smell of fire.

Peter breathed out, annoyed, and moved to the window to convince himself he wasn’t trapped in a burning house in the middle of the woods. He watched the empty street stretching into the city outside his apartment. It was silent and empty and safe. He was safe, Peter told himself. There was no fire; not here, not now.

Peter quietly growled at his reflection, bothered by his own reactions. What was he supposed to do? Who was he supposed to reach out to? This never-ending grief and terror was an annoyance he accepted. It wasn’t leaving; he needed a distraction.

He moved away from the window. His car keys were waiting for him to make a move, left on top of a book on the coffee table. Peter went as far as reaching out for them and letting one of his claws scratch it before he changed his mind.

He decided to run, instead.

He was fine. He was free. He could run.

And so, Peter did.

With bed hair, in his pajamas and still barefoot, Peter ran. Aggravating as family could be, he missed his pack. The street was empty and no one would see him. Peter wasn’t really sure if it was the fire or the holidays but he ran to the woods.

Peter had always disliked Christmas. It was loud and full of boring tasks; it had always been bothersome. It wasn’t surprising that it somehow was made worst. The woods smelt like home and freedom and _painandfireandloss_.

He stopped to howl and, a second later, he was running again. He was alive and there were dry leaves under is feet. Peter ran and ran and ran until he forgot himself and his nightmares. He could close his eyes and let his body take him anywhere. He knew these woods. He knew these scents. This was home. This was the reason he didn’t leave.

Peter slowed down and came to a stop near the old house. The wind was nice; it was almost as if it was blowing the smell of fire away from him. The werewolf stood there for a moment, watching the burned house in the dark and feeling alive. Peter closed his eyes.

He knew what this place smelt like. He knew what this place was supposed to smell like.

The wind turned and hit him again. He frowned, paying attention; he could recognize Stiles’ scent coming from the house. Peter tilted his head, listening carefully. He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat inside the house.

Peter wondered why Stiles would be out there at this time. He wondered if it was truly Stiles and not something older and darker wearing his face. This was odd. Peter felt his claws coming out as he stalked closer to the house as silent as he could be.

Stiles was sitting on the stairs inside the house, turning his phone on his hands. Peter could see him through one of the windows. He just sat there like he had been waiting for Peter and Peter wondered if he was still dreaming.

Peter straightened his back, trying to look nonchalant as he stood in the doorway.

“Stiles,” Peter said and the teen bolted up, visibly startled.

 “Jes-” Stiles breathed out, glaring at Peter. He rubbed his face with his right hand and put his phone back in his pocket. “What is this? Did I trigger your Hale senses of someone must be in the old house? Is that a thing? Give a guy some warning,” he shot Peter an annoyed look. “Fuck.”

Peter watched Stiles, letting his claws retract. It was still odd, but this was Stiles. Peter took a deep breath, trying to read his scent.

“Technically, you are trespassing.”

“Oh, very funny. Haha,” he wrinkled his nose and forced a smile with thinned lips “Technically, I am not trespassing anything of yours.”

Not for the first time, Peter was glad Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. For all that Stiles would make an amazing wolf – Peter was sure of that – he would have access to too much information and Peter wasn’t sure Stiles wouldn’t use it to destroy him. Fair was fair and Peter didn’t expect senseless destruction just for the sake of it, but he remembered all too well the part Stiles played in burning him alive for the second time and he wasn’t sure he could go his entire life without giving Stiles another reason to take him out.

Stiles inspired a wariness that Peter couldn’t explain from the moment they met. Peter remembered smiling and saying ‘you must be Stiles’ and even months later, even if he regretted the loss of his alpha powers and the fact Stiles would never truly be his pack, he couldn’t forget the feeling of wrongness and the alarms that went off in his head as he said ‘you must be Stiles’ because the boy was and that – somehow – was a dangerous thing.

“Isn’t it too late for you to be out in the woods, Stiles? On your own,” Peter smirked, changing the subject as he stepped closer. Stiles shrugged and didn’t ask what Peter was doing there. “You never know what could be lurking out here.”

“You,” he snorted and Peter smiled at him.

Stiles leaned against the wall, seeming comfortable with the company. The werewolf couldn’t stop himself from questioning his motivations. They stayed in silent for a few minutes. Peter looked around with the sort of detachment of someone forcing themselves to move on, trying to pretend he wasn't painfully aware of Stiles. He watched the teen from the corner of his eyes.

The silence stretched. Somehow it felt to Peter like he was always watching Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles asked quietly and Peter turned back to him. Stiles traced a part of the pattern on the wallpaper that was still visible wit his fingertip. Peter followed his finger, wondering what they were doing, wondering why they were doing it. “When was the last time you had sex?”

Peter blinked, caught by surprise.

He gave Stiles a moment to finish the joke - because it surely was a joke - but he seemed serious about the question. It was a very odd night. In the end, Peter rolled his eyes, looking away from Stiles face and into the hallway next to the staircase. Stiles pushed himself away from the wall.

Peter refused to step back.

It was a taunt. He wasn’t sure where this was leading, yet, but they understood each other on a basic level. They brushed off the insults and taunts and accusations and moved on. It wasn’t forgiveness that they offered each other, but some sort of acknowledgement that they were similar in terrible ways. This meant more than it seemed.

Stiles took another step closer and Peter let out a low growl, his lip twitching to show a hint of his fangs except all he showed was his very human teeth.

“Stiles,” Peter warned. He didn’t appreciate being mocked.

Stiles stopped and shrugged, offering no explanations and no apologies.

“Do you want to?”

Peter looked him up and down, trying to figure him out.

Stiles could see it in the way Peter’s stance changed that Peter was interested. Curious, at least. Faced with his own mortality too many times in the previous months, Stiles threw caution to the wind. Peter took a step forward, a more confident predator now that he knew Stiles would fall back in the role of prey.

“I sincerely hope you didn’t come all the way here to seduce me, Stiles. Not to question your take on romance; the setting just isn’t quite what I’d expect.”

Peter smirked.

Stiles had accepted the supernatural into his life – welcomed it in, even – but acceptance didn’t predict being possessed by ancient spirits and raising from the dead. Acceptance meant shit and here he was with Peter, out in the woods and clearly not in his right mind because who would go into the woods with a psycho. Teen vanishes into the night; the headlines would say. Teen found dead in the woods; the headlines would say. Stiles snorted because he knew there was some sort of reason to Peter’s madness. He was a murderer, there was no denying, but by now Stiles had learned to pick his murderers and between geriatric psychos and mutant killer lizards, Peter was fine.

That and his smirk was oddly seductive.

“You got me. Failed Don Juan here,” Stiles made a face, waving his hand to emphasize the ridiculousness of the idea.

It was too much, too often, and coping wasn’t really part of it anymore. Things kept happening and happening and they’d keep on happening and Peter got it. They had a sort of trust born out of the understanding that they were similar in their broken places. There was no end in sight and Peter saw reason in what Stiles wasn’t yet convinced wasn’t pure paranoia.

And, after all, Peter was also out in the woods tonight. Peter smiled at him, all charm and confidence that weren't there a moment ago.

Peter snorted a laugh and took the last step. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Stiles' in a chaste kiss that Stiles couldn't figure if it was a tease or a mockery. He didn't hold Stiles' face nor did he pull him close.

"Come on!" Stiles huffed, reaching out so he could grab Peter's shirt.

Peter tensed up. Stiles let go of his shirt - he didn't want to ruin it by getting mauled because he startled the werewolf in the room - and kept his hand on Peter’s chest, feeling Peter's heartbeat while watching him. It was only fair; Peter could hear his own.

“You’re seriously overthinking this and believe me, I know what that looks like,” Stiles reassured him.

This time, Peter kissed him.

Stiles parted his lips and refused to let his eyes close, watching the werewolf through almost closed eyes as they kissed. Peter watched him back. They moved together. They had always been weirdly synchronized. 

It was a surprisingly gentle kiss; their movements were almost lazy. It felt like teasing. It felt overwhelming at the same time it was clearly not enough. Stiles pressed closer, catching Peter’s lower lip between his teeth before sucking on it. Peter growled against Stiles’ lips, opening and closing his hands and grabbing at nothing. He wasn’t touching Stiles; he wasn’t holding him.

It had been a long time.

They broke the kiss, glancing from each other's eyes to their lips. The second kiss came naturally and Peter was the first one to close his eyes, leaning into Stiles, claiming the kiss and demanding more.

Stiles parted his lips for him, allowing the kiss to be deepened. He moved his hands to Peter’s arms, holding onto his shirt and pushing his hips against Peter’s. Peter put his hand on the small of Stiles' back, helping him press closer and get better support to grind against him.

They kissed and kissed and kissed. Peter felt as inexperienced as Stiles probably was. It was sloppy and messy and Peter didn’t expect to be out here with Stiles. Peter didn’t expect to come back here, to be at what used to be his house and where the smell of burning and death lingered, kissing Stiles and getting hard because of it – him – and pulling him closer. Peter didn’t expect to ever be back at the old burned Hale house kissing and touching and teasing and about to have sex after years of not being touched and not touching anyone except to hurt and to be hurt and it was too much and too little and it felt like panic.

He grabbed Stiles hips, holding him up and maybe holding too tightly, but Stiles wasn’t complaining. Stiles wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist and held his face between his hands, taking over the kiss and licking and biting and sucking on Peter’s bottom lip as if he was aware of Peter’s emotions and wanted to provide a distraction.

It took a huge amount of control for Peter to keep his claws from coming out and, even so, when they broke the kiss and Stiles opened his eyes he found himself looking into bright supernatural blue eyes.

From losing his virginity in the basement of an insane asylum to dry humping a previously dead werewolf with anger issues in the charred remains of a condemned house, Stiles couldn’t keep himself from thinking his sexual history was shaping up to become pretty unique. Stiles snorted and Peter arched an eyebrow at him, but Stiles didn’t feel like sharing the joke.

Maybe he should. Maybe Peter had an even worse track record.

“Did you have sex in the burn unity?” Stiles blurted out.

Peter stared at him.

“I’m not sure you are grasping the concept of dirty talk, Stiles.”

Stiles leaned down and brushed his lips against Peter’s, not quite a kiss but a promise of it. It seemed to do the trick and in the next moment Peter had his hands on Stiles’ ass, holding him up firmly as he leaned forward and pushed into the kiss to claim Stiles’ mouth. Peter demanded and Stiles was willing to comply.

He had his legs still wrapped around Peter's waist and he moved his hips, grinding against him. Peter kept him up, hands squeezing Stiles' ass and eyes still closed, as he took a couple steps to sit on the stairs. He knew this house.

Stiles straddled him without objecting and leaned closer again so he could lick Peter’s lips. He patted down Peter's short sleeves, nervously rubbing his arms.

“Regretting it? Reconsidering, maybe?” Stiles asked.

Peter was oddly gentle, oddly caring. His claws ghosted over Stiles’ skin, through his pants, as Peter moved his hands down Stiles’ thighs but he didn’t let them sink in. He didn’t bite, he didn’t scratch.

“Are you?” Peter half smiled at him. “No, Stiles. Unexpected as this is, I’m enjoying it.”

Stiles nodded and let go of Peter’s shirt so he could move his hands, too. He pressed his lips in a thin line, watching Peter’s face as he touched his chest and his stomach, his hips. He rocked his hips lightly, teasing.

Stiles didn’t expect to be out in the woods fucking a murderer to feel in control of his life but here he was and it was working. He wondered what sort of control Peter got from this.

“Yeah,” he agreed with Peter because he was enjoying it, too. Then he added: “It’s not my first time, F.Y.I.”

Peter chuckled.

Stiles rocked his hips and arched an eyebrow at Peter. It was enough of an invitation.

The stairs made their position more rigid than it had to be and it wasn’t quite what Stiles expected, but it was still good. He tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling, and it was almost a surprise when he felt Peter’s lips on his throat and Peter’s hands undoing his pants.

Peter wrapped his hand around Stiles' dick, stroking him and pressing the heel of his palm lightly on the base of Stiles' cock. Stiles' underwear restricted Peter’s movements, but there wasn’t much they could do out here, with no warning and no planning, so why bother. Stiles moaned, breathing picking up as Peter touched him.

Peter watched, mesmerized. He watched him with eyes too blue to be human and kept his claws in so he could keep on touching. He wondered what Stiles could look like in a bed or a couch or on his floor. For the first time in a long time, Peter considered taking someone home with him.

He wanted to take his time. He wanted to have everything he needed to touch and tease and slowly drawn out moans and sharp breaths. He wanted to…he wanted.

Peter wanted Stiles.

He pressed his teeth to the curve of Stiles neck and was satisfied by Stiles’ gasp. Peter didn’t bite, but he pressed his teeth – still human and so difficult to keep them like that – a bit harder.

Stiles moaned.

They were both fucked up. Their broken pieces fit well together.

Stiles held on Peter's shoulders again, digging his fingers into his skin this time and trying to thrust into Peter's hold. Peter grinded his teeth together, controlling his breathing and taking in Stiles’ scent. The teen on his lap moaned louder, grinding against Peter and causing the werewolf's breath to hitch. He gasped, thrusting up and rubbing himself against Stiles', despite their clothes in the way.

"Peter," he said softly, and Peter recognized begging when he heard it.

He tightened his grip and moved his hand faster, bothered by the restrictions offered by Stiles' underwear. It was an annoyance now and it had to go.

Peter moved his free hand to the back of Stiles’ thigh, pulling him up and pushing him forward, against Peter's chest, so he could tug on his pants and pull them down some more. Stiles watched him through half opened eyes, mindlessly thrusting into Peter's loose hold in an attempt to get more friction.

Peter moved his hand up Stiles’ thigh, wanting to grab and mark and claim, but barely letting his claws touch the little exposed skin. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder and forced his claws to retract. Stiles ran his fingers through Peter’s hair, grabbing a handful to pull his head back so they could kiss again. Stiles sucked on Peter's bottom lip, holding him back by his hair and claiming the right to the whole action more than the kiss itself or Peter.

They both knew they wouldn’t get much further.  They had time but this was not the place, this was not the right moment. Peter pressed his fingertip into Stiles, barely working the tip in as Stiles moved his hips, still seeking for better stimuli. It was teasing and control and a sort of understanding they craved more that they wanted to admit.

Stiles let go of Peter’s hair so he could touch him, too. He pressed his hand against Peter's dick, rubbing him through his pants and kept his forehead against Peter's, eyes closed as they fucked each other’s hands and pretended there wasn’t anything more to it.

Stiles’ breathing quickened and so did Peter’s touches. There were gasps and the moans and the rumbling noise coming from Peter’s chest but neither of them called a name or confessed anything when the orgasm hit. Stiles first and then Peter, holding Stiles’ hips, pulling him down on his lap to press against him.

Peter pressed his face on the curve of Stiles neck, relaxing against him and taking deep breaths through his nose. It took him some time to regain control. Stiles didn't seem to mind, distracted by his own pleasure.

“Pleasant as this was, I’d rather have a bed next time,” Peter said, pulling back and letting go of Stiles. “I happen to value comfort.”

Stiles laughed and prompted himself up, using Peter’s shoulders for support. He wasn’t sure what was the expected protocol after impromptu handjobs in a place full of dark memories. He pulled his pants up and wondered if he was developing some sort of fetish for tragic places. Maybe he’d become one of those people that visited old hospitals said to be haunted just so he could have sex in them. Stiles glanced at Peter.

Or maybe he could try a bed.

“Surprisingly enough, this is not the first time I wonder what it’d be like to have a bed.”

“You should try mine.”

Stiles picked his phone from where it had landed on the floor when they moved to the stairs and pushed it back into his pocket.

"Very impressive. An actual pick up line,” he laughed, frowning a moment later. Peter was still sitting on the stairs as if it was a comfortable couch. “Why didn't you say anything? About the bite. You offered me the bite back then and you acted like it was a crazy idea," Stiles asked – accused – Peter. He knew the timing wasn't right but he needed to know. He remembered what he saw through the nogitsune's eyes.

"You looked sicker and paler than usual," Peter shrugged, getting up and dusting off his clothes as if it made any difference. There was a stain in the front of his pants that made Stiles snigger.

"Liar," he said softly.

"Why didn't I say anything then?" Peter scoffed, finally facing Stiles. It didn’t sound like a question and, in truth, it wasn’t.

Peter had wanted to repay a debt he owned. Months ago, Stiles had helped him while he was half out of his mind; he had offered understanding. It had been only fair to do the same because Peter knew chess was Stiles’ game and that made him question quite a lot. He smiled sweetly at Stiles.

"I think," Stiles frowned. "You don't want me to get the bite from anyone else. And you don't want anyone to know. That you offered it to me,” he rubbed his arm and looked away for a few seconds before looking back at Peter with narrowed eyes and a heartbeat that was too fast. “The answer didn't change."

Peter considered it. It'd be nice to claim Stiles as his pack in such a definitive way, but that wasn't it. Maybe Stiles didn’t understand the reasoning behind Peter’s actions.

Or maybe it was a lie. The memory of a parking garage and lie after lie denying the knowledge Peter knew Stiles had at the time came to mind.

"You teenagers, always thinking it's all about how special you are," Peter flashed his eyes at Stiles. “I’m not an Alpha.”

Stiles stepped towards Peter and kissed him. The kiss felt like an afterthought; it was messy and more aggressive than it had to be, more aggressive than any of the others had been. It surprised Peter.

The whole night surprised Peter. It was...odd.

Peter took a deep breath. He could smell arousal, sweat, anxiety and so much more lingering behind it – the fire, the ashes, the blood – but the overpowering scent in the room was Stiles'. He was too close and too distracting.  It was the distraction Peter needed and he didn’t think he wanted to let go.

“So what about that bed of yours? Wanna talk about it? Tell me the details?" Stiles made a pause. "Do you have silk sheets?”

Peter looked at what used to his home – months ago, his brain insisted – years ago, and back at Stiles. Stiles looked calmer. Peter felt calmer.

“No, you idiot,” he snorted. "But we can discuss the details."

Not letting go could be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading it!  
> i really hope you enjoyed it
> 
> it's partly beta'd and i hope there aren't any glaring mistakes as it is ;a; 
> 
> it was inspired by a bunch of phantom planet songs but mostly by geronimo. also thank you koko and ninna for helping me so much


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